


In the Country of the Dead

by spicy_cheeto



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood, Dead People, Horror, M/M, References to Illness, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28226955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicy_cheeto/pseuds/spicy_cheeto
Summary: In the Imperial Year 1185, the Minister of the Imperial House is sent to investigate an illness that has appeared in Fodlan. His journey takes him to the Aegir castle, where the dead are waiting.A semi-romantic gothic tale, in which ghosts, ghouls, and a history of blood haunt our heroes. Their journeys are shared through letters, journal entries, and the occasional official government document.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg & Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Kudos: 12





	In the Country of the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> I'm reposting this from another account, oops! Mostly an experiment in trying to emulate the style of Dracula, using vampire Ferdinand as an excuse. Ferdinand has sadly been demoted to a count in this because it sounds spookier, and the world is messed with to make it work for my purposes. We'll see how it all shakes out.

_Excerpts of letters from the Minister of the Imperial House to the Emperor of the Adrestian Empire, in the Imperial Year 1185_

The journey through the mountains is always painfully slow, and without much scenery. Not that I intend to sightsee, but it dulls the senses to see the same passing rocks at this agonizing pace. I spend this time reviewing the reports my agents have returned to me. Your concern is not unwarranted. Whatever this sickness that has driven in from the eastern coast, even in Merceus I can sense its effects. In one town, they brought me to a small church, where inside three people were laid out on blankets and kept warm by the light of lanterns. They were pale, fragile things. One was a nobleman, and he had been so taken by the affliction he could barely move. His skin was glistening with sweat and shaded blue, but he shivered uncontrollably. His eyes were nearly red, if he could manage to open them. I spoke with the Knights of Seiros, and their giddy little gang had no clue as to what could be causing it. I tested each victim and found their symptoms akin to blood loss. I wonder if it’s a parasite, perhaps, but not one that traveled through food or water. Perhaps this is a new tactic by our enemies. I took samples anyway. I do not know enough information yet, but I continue east in search of more.

As always, your humble servant,

H.

⁜⁜⁜

Tonight I have been taken by thespians. They’re a woeful sort, desperate and clamoring for any sort of attention. My retinue betrays me, and I am invited to the opera as the Emperor's special guest. I tell them I have important work for the Empire to attend to, I am steadfast in refusal, and yet their soprano has me in a box for the evening show. It is a war play, something grotesque and garish prettied up with red ribbons and armor with no practical use on the battlefield. I do not understand the words, but I recognize the symbols, of course. The great lion, the winged horses, and then the goddess descends from the ceiling to bless the battlefield. I am bored by the second act and share a nap with another noble who is snoring lightly in his seat. If you were to attend the opera, my lady, I’ve no idea what security would even entail. Too many corners, too many people in masks, too much distraction. I think simplicity would overrule. A knight outside the door, of course, and more waiting in the wings to rush out like this beleaguered play, and you and I in the box. Perhaps theatre would be more enjoyable if you were the one watching it.

My delay is not in vain. Again the soprano convinces me to dinner with the prima donna and several nobles. I recognize this for what it is. It is only men I share the table with, besides the actresses, who are still in makeup. The prima donna wears a dress that covers very little and drinks red wine until her pretty words are slurred. The soprano is more together, but she is acting all the same. She flirts with everyone in turn, including myself, though there is not much I need to do in order to end that. Two other girls from the chorus laugh and share stories. I spend the evening in silence, until the chorus girls says something about the illness. The nobles are quick to speak up about it. Apparently here, it has only affected blue blood.

The soprano will not hear of it. She only wants to talk of good things, and she forces the conversation to the performance this evening. But that, too, is a sore spot for her. One of the chorus girls tells us that tonight Box 5 was empty. The soprano is suddenly silent.

“The theatre is such a superstitious place,” she tells me, perhaps sensing I am the only one with reason among our group. “It’s always ghosts and portends with us.”

“It’s better that it’s empty,” the chorus girl states. “It usually is.”

“We keep the box for a noble house,” the soprano states. “Who cares if they use it or not. We’ve already got their gold.”

“Tell them,” the chorus girl insists. “About when it’s not.”

A silence overcomes the table. The usual blustering noblemen await a good ghost story. It is not the soprano that speaks next, but the prima donna, who rises from her stupor to weave us a tale.

“The curtains are drawn,” the prima donna states, voice warbling with appropriate drama. “No one can see inside. The door is locked. There’s not a soul who hasn’t tried to peek inside the box, and it is dark as midnight in there. But when you are on stage, you can feel his eyes on you. It is like an arrow piercing your very soul. At times, when I look up, I can see two red eyes of hellfire gazing down upon our stage. Once, I have seen a bone white hand draw from the curtain. Whatever sits in that box is not human. A demon, perhaps, or a ghost. But he looks at you, and you feel like a rabbit in the moonlight with the waiting jaws of a predator nearby.”

“Tell them,” the chorus girl says. “Tell them who owns the box.”

The soprano rolls her eyes with a loud sigh. “It belongs to the von Aegirs.”

That has my attention. A few others at the table sit up. They do not know that tomorrow I will cross the river, and Aegir is exactly where I will be.

“Count von Aegir?” one of the nobles ask, and when the soprano nods he says, “But he is dead.”

He is the first taken by the disease, nearly a year ago. His castle rotted out, his lands dried up, his staff dead or disappeared and will not speak of what happened there, though I have tried to understand. I ask the soprano when the box last had its occupant. I think if he had come here while sick, I could track the spread of the disease. Perhaps it lies with the von Aegirs, perhaps it is their blood that is poisoned.

But the soprano tells me the box was full only a few months ago, beneath the Horsebow Moon. It is the same time the nobles here began to feel faint. I think, perhaps, that not all the von Aegirs have disappeared.

Tomorrow we cross the river into von Aegir territory. Only then can I know for sure.

⁜⁜⁜

Aegir is a quiet place since losing its lord. The Empire has taken on the noble’s duties since his passing. The territory will most likely be divided up and parceled to the neighboring regents, but I am loathe to give them more power. Matters to discuss upon my return, I’m certain.

Even on the outskirts of Aegir, I feel the effects of the disease. Another church made sanctuary of the ill, another town where the windows are shuttered to the dark. Under the Red Wolf Moon, night creeps in sooner and sooner. I find most shops don’t stay open after night fall, and the townspeople do not raise their eyes to strangers. Since von Aegir’s death, my agents have been silent. There’s no one left in the castle, and those that scuttled under the count’s corruption seem to have fled in the wake of this disease.

We stop in the market for supplies, and the locals are eager to sell. Aegir does not have anything particularly exotic to enjoy, but it is good enough to feed the horses and my own belly. I linger to hear how people talk. Idle gossip is always good to know which way the wind is blowing. Several vendors try to sell me charms to ward away evil, and their hands shake as they explain how I’ll need it. They have statues of the goddess, and a woman even tries to sell me a charm from Brigid, braided with bright beads and colorful feathers. I refrain from laughing. If our own gods cannot protect us, why would foreign ones care?

The most concerning thing I hear is that the bridge to the castle has been destroyed. I don’t know if it was in haste to stop the spread of the disease or in retaliation of the count. Our retinue cannot travel, so I go alone. No horse, only a single parcel of supplies. It is better that way. No feet trampling around me. I’m used to working in private. The shadows are better companions anyway.

⁜⁜⁜

I had a stroke of luck today. My retinue is taking shelter in a town beyond the bridge, and in the employ of the inn is the von Aegir’s previous cook. She recognized me immediately for who I was. My reputation, as always, proves a boon. Many think for the slightest sliver of information I’d hang them on the rack, or feed them one of my poisoned daggers, and so they share their secrets eagerly and openly. Or perhaps she didn’t care for these. Part of her pay in the von Aegir household was keeping her mouth shut, but now someone else supplies her coin. She confirms my suspicions if nothing else. There is a von Aegir left alive.

“It’s his son,” she tells me. “As sick as the rest of them. We were let go after the count died, and he remained in the castle. The whole staff gone. He told us we shouldn’t risk our lives just to serve him.”

An unusual stance for a noble, I’ll admit. I ask her about the bridge.

“Him as well,” she says. “So no one else could suffer.”

I remember, vaguely, a young boy with red hair by the name of von Aegir. I remember him, at the age of eight, offering to duel you. I think the only thing that stayed my hand against him were your words. Perhaps you, my lady, could recall him better, but until this nasty business is solved it’s best you remain in Enbarr.

A noble who lives up to his title, though. A novelty. I think there is more to this story than that. If the last von Aegir truly sits in his castle keep, then I will root him out.

Your humble servant,

H.

⁜⁜⁜

I struggle to find the words today, my lady. I will try to explain it to you as it happened, in hopes I can parse it out myself.

Crossing the bridge was no trouble. Lords dig their little moats and stack high their walls, but their fortresses are never as strong as they wish. On the other side I inspected the ropes. Cut from the castle, by sword by the looks of it, done in haste. The ground is not so steep here, but the castle is still protected by leaning rocks and a rough landscape that makes traversing difficult. I am glad to rid myself of my retinue. Still, it takes me to sunset to follow the curving path up to the castle gates. They are left open.

In the broad light of day, the castle must look out of a fairy tale. Tall spires make four points along the the heavily enforced wall, and the iron gates must’ve gleamed in its day, freshly polished and with shining knights to guard it. But in the year since its abandonment weeds and prickly grass have overgrown the once white stones. A tree has been split by lightning and one half of it bends to the ground in a horrible impression of weeping willow, while the other half’s branches wrend and twist. I can see the stables in the distance. Their roof has caved in, and if any horses remain, they’d be nothing but bone. The stained glass windows are shattered on the high floors. Lanterns are hung, casting week light. The moon rises behind it, full and fat and orange as a water bucket tinged with blood. This place is a grave, I think as I come to the wide doors that once led processions of nights and daring lords and ladies.

I still think that now.

The doors part as I arrive to them. You know how unused I am to being startled, and yet it startles me. I have worn the robes of my Minister duties, and I touch a hand to the Adrestian seal at my breast. More comforting is the weight of the dagger in my sleeve, but I suppose the gesture is enough.

The grand foyer is empty. The carpet is threadbare. The furniture is covered in dust. Candles are dripping over the railings, and someone has lit them. They don’t offer much by way of light, but I can see, standing atop the staircase, a figure. He descends as I approach. The lord who greets me is tall, broad shouldered, and--most oddly--well dressed. The shoulders of his uniform are pressed, the ribbons carefully tied, and a sash across his chest displaying pretty medals he won in conflict. Red light from the windows catches in his ginger hair, and it lights him up like the setting sun. He looks stepped from the story books we mocked as children. Imagine him in stained glass, a brave warrior saint as the church depicts, with eyes bright and determined. His steps echo through the empty chamber. He is like a ghost in this barren, decrepit place.

“It has been a long time,” he says, without preamble, “that I have had visitors.”

I introduce myself officially. I tell him I am the Minister of the Imperial House. I tell him I am sent on your orders. What I tell him is the truth, almost exactly. What I do not tell him is that his presence is so unsettling. He moves gracefully, intentionally perhaps is the better word. He remains on the stairs as I speak to him. To keep himself above. He listens and nods as I show my credentials. When I am finished, he bows, with a flourish.

“It is my thanks that the Empress has been so concerned for our state,” he says. His words are bombast, each syllable announced with a trumpeter’s fanfare. His voice echoes through the empty hall. “Unfortunately there’s nothing more to be done. I’d recommend you leaving now, unless you too want to fall ill of this disease.”

“I’m meant to study it,” I tell him. “It hasn’t died yet.”

“No,” he says, amusedly. “It hasn’t.”

I do not know what to make of this von Aegir as he comes to my level. The previous count was a shrew, conniving man who cared only to see his wealth grow. This man moves and speaks like one of the thespians. His mannerisms are loud, his enactments over the top. At once he ushers me from the main hall to the kitchens, apologizing all the way that he has no servants to tend to us, but I had to understand with the situation so dire he could not keep them on, and shall I stay the evening, but oh the sun is already set, and I cannot tell him I have no need of hospitality before he’s blundered me into a chair in a dusty dining hall that has not had an occupant in the past year. The table runner is torn. The candles have not burned down, they are not even lit. I’m grateful that nighttime is such a friend to me. It is everywhere here.

There is no food in the castle. The pantries have been worn away, and what is left is nibbled on by rats and roaches. The count wrings his hands at this. He wears gloves, as I do, but he pulls at them, constantly checking that they have not slipped free. His amber eyes flit from place to place. I have my own rations, but he does not dine at all in my presence. He stands. Like a stranger in his own home.

He asks me what will make my trip expedient. I tell him. Take me to the dead.

It startles him to hear the words from my mouth. I fear nothing from the dead, not as most men do. You and I both know there are far worse things in this world than dying. But this requests makes him all the more anxious. At first I think he’ll tell me I must leave. I can see the words forming on his tongue. But he shakes his head, and he leads me to the mausoleum.

Nobles pride themselves on their generations. They map them out on vellum to preserve their lineage, to prove that they come from divine stock. The catacombs beneath the Aegir castle work much the same. There is a church one must enter first to go down, to cleanse the living from the dead, I suppose. The count will not go through the threshold. He holds out a lantern to me. I take his hesitation for fear, but the place is worse off than any other part of the castle that I’ve seen. The windows have been smashed, the goddess statue torn down, the lanterns overturned. It’s as if a storm had hit it. Fresh frost lines the broken glass, reflecting moonlight into the small chapel. I take the lantern and open a metal gate that leads me down below. The stairs are long, and the air is quiet and dark. I turn exactly once, thinking I hear von Aegir follow. It’s just the wind.

There are several rooms to the catacombs, and I walk through each one, past the ancient warriors that first took this rock as their own, past the lords and ladies who died clutching gold in their hands, to our most recent occupants. They are named and stamped with a crest. I find the Lady von Aegir, and the Lord. I hang the lantern on the wall and let its light guide me as I shift the coffins open. The old ones are stone, but these are a fine sturdy wood, varnished a dark color and gilded at the corners. The lids lift, and I inspect the bodies.

My full report will follow soon, but I will tell you, my lady, that I’ve never seen a corpse quite like this. Their skin was sunken in, their eyes bruise colored, and their fingertips were white. They looked hollow, empty things. The decomposition had begun, and their skin looked like masks. The skin seems unblemished, but the Lord has a hole in his chest, driven deep and purposefully, as though by a lance. It is not from the illness. I will slice one open, if the count will allow me, and even if he will not. The dead can serve a purpose yet.

But I am driven from my duty by the count himself. He was suddenly before me, unmoving in the dark. If I were a different man, I would have shouted. I moved for my dagger instead, stilled only by my natural night vision and honed instincts.

“The disease came slowly at first,” von Aegir tells me. He moves into my lantern light. It does not quite find his face, but his amber eyes glow in the still of the dark. “A few cleaners took ill at first. And then the first girl died, and the rest followed. They’d collapse on the floors. My father had a priest brought in, and he told us we were cursed. That it wouldn’t end until the von Aegir line was in the ground.”

“Curse or no,” I tell him, “there is a cause, and thus a solution.”

He shakes his head, sadly. “If only that were true.”

It is the superstition of the weak. If magic is the cause, then it can be undone. If it’s not, then it can be cured. Reason triumphs. But my host is uninterested in my words. He tells me I can stay, for now, and offers me a room. I am led upstairs, through the empty halls. Portraits stare down at me as I pass. The old count’s has been torn, the face ripped clean off his shoulders. Neither I nor von Aegir comment on this. He opens the door to a small bedchamber.

“I will not be available in the daytime,” he tells me. “The castle is yours. Please, be careful while you’re here. We have already buried all we can bear.”

I have no pretty words to comfort him. I say goodnight.

⁜⁜⁜

The count is no liar. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him in the daytime. The sun rises over the Aegir castle, and I can almost see this place for what it was. It’s all overgrown and in ruin, but there was a time where it must’ve been lovely. I cannot imagine this happening in only a year. Perhaps the young lord is right. Perhaps it is a curse he should worry about.

He arrives at sunset, always where I am. He found me testing the waters outside, sliding away samples to be checked for known poisons. He is curious that I’ve caught a fish, until I explain to him I can see the contents of its belly. His face goes pale, and he storms away. He finds me in the library, pouring over the historical record, which drops off before a year go. He dithers on and on about the books on weapons and armor crafting. He weaves circles into the floor of the library as he walks, hands waving, mouth never stop moving. He finds me in the catacombs, slicing a finger off of a corpse. He says nothing at all to that. He watches with curiosity as I handle the dead, stopping only to explain the deep and intimate histories of each relative left in their boxes. I would throttle him if I did not need him. The count must be lonely, trapped here in his castle, but must I be the well he has to fill? I sit in silence until he says something too stupid for me to ignore. You’d think me petty, my lady, and you’d be right.

Of this I am certain: This disease has started with the von Aegirs. I don’t know how long it took for them to recognize what it was, but first the count took ill, and then the servants, and then there is nothing. People fled. The bridge is destroyed. The count hopes to keep the sickness contained inside himself. The last stalwart soldier in a war that cannot be won with swords and shields or on pretty horses. I think it best we let this line die out, my lady. I don’t know if it will be grieved at all.

I take to my duties. I will write my report, and I can wash my hands of this place.

⁜⁜⁜

My lady, I--

I will recount a tale for you tonight. You remember the ghost stories of our academy days. The way we would delight in sending shivers down the spines of or classmates. I would scare the ladies of our hall and send them screaming under their covers, and you would laugh and laugh. I think on those times now, as though this is a campfire story shared by knights to frighten children.

The count did not appear to be at sundown. Good, I think. With his hovering, what proper work can I do? I find nothing in the water, nothing among the dead. I think of the lance wound on the old count. When I inspected it further, did you know that it still bled? Not as though a living person. Gummy and foul, but blood nonetheless. I think a coagulant might make the blood lethargic, or perhaps too fresh, considering the time frame. But I am getting off topic.

I am left alone in the castle. During the day this is always the case, and I have come and gone as I please. I’m afraid, my lady, the rats have overrun this place, despite how little food is left, and they’ve become too brazen with no person to fear. They hiss at me as I pass, eyes red in the darkness. I pay them no mind.

I expect my host to arrive as the red sun sets behind the frozen hills, but he does not. I am left with moonlight, and darkness. I go down into the catacombs. Something has nagged at me, and I must see it through. The dead buried here are all nobles, so they are useless to me. I examine the Lady again. A jeweled necklace weighs heavy around her throat, each ruby worth more than a single village could afford, and it is buried here to never see daylight again. I unclasp it and open her collar. I see what I am looking for.

On the throat there are markings, like the nobles in Merceus, but hers are--it is as though a beast has scraped its teeth across her skin. The welts are ugly and still a vibrant red. She does not bleed like the Lord does, but still the skin unsettles me. I replace the coffin’s lid, and I follow the stone path past the previous count. There is another metal gate, and another chamber here. I’d ignored it before. The count was the last von Aegir to die of the disease, I believed. The bodies of the servants were supposedly burned, or sent to be buried in town. But this chamber may hold clues yet. The gate is rusted, and it screams at me as I force it against the stone floor. My gloves come away red with rust. My lantern can barely hold its flame to the darkness. I lift it high in front of my face, hoping to catch a glimmer of anything.

What I see is a box. It sits amid the room, stone and etched with the heads of rearing horses. I see the Adrestian crest at its feet and press my thumb against the twin headed eagle. There is a sound in the chamber that echoes across the stone walls and ceiling. Rats, I think, when I see nothing there. I lower my dagger anyway. Thieves might lurk around. Tales of sickness would scare away most, but a man must see an empty castle and know the kings are buried with their crowns.

I examine the stone. It is clearly a tomb of some sort. I run my hand across the reliefs because the darkness is thick here, like a fog that has choked out the light of my lantern. I must rely on my other senses. I touch along the outside and lift my hand to the ridge, and I pause. This tomb has been left open. I can feel the grim slab as I shove the lid with all my might. I raise my lantern and I see inside.

Nothing.

Red lining makes a bed of its bottom, but there is nothing laying here. No, that is inaccurate. Something _has_ lain here. I can see the imprint of the body in the silken cloth, but it is empty now. I reach down and pluck something from the pillow. I have to hold it up the light to be sure, but the strand of red hair catches like sunlight.

I hear a noise again. I turn. The lantern swings light where it can, but the darkness is a miasma. And then it catches a pair of red eyes. At first I think they are a rat, they are so close to the floor, until they start to rise and rise and rise until I see the shape of a man. Until there is a figure before me. Red hair catches the lantern like wildfire. I see, as it swings, a flash of his face. The Lord von Aegir is before me, his amber eyes like burning embers, his mouth open wide, and I see teeth, too many teeth, and I see blood painting his mouth and running down his jaw like an animal caught in the kill, and he is coming towards me, my lady, I feel more than see him lunge, and the lantern crashes against the ground so that the light is sucked from the room as I take a breath and I feel it, my lady, I feel my dagger plunge into his flesh I feel the weight of him and hear the sound of metal against skin, and I know that I have wounded him, but he does not care as his hands wrap around me, and I am tumbling back into the darkness, and it feels as though I am falling from a very high place my lady and the only thing I hold onto is the count _and I know he is stabbed_ \--

And then I wake up.

It is silly to think I was dreaming, my lady. I have never doubted my senses in such a way. But I awake in my bed, still in my clothes, but my boots are set on the floor beside me, and the covers have been tucked under my chin, but my dagger is gone. My head aches. There is a tender spot from where it hit the stone.

It is still moonlight outside my window. I write this by the stars. I need to know that this is what has happened, that I do not forget and embellish. He has not locked me in. I hear pacing, perhaps, or maybe more rats. I do not know for certain.

I wait for morning.

⁜⁜⁜

You would have told me to leave, my lady, and you would have been right. A sane man would not stay here a moment longer. That thing that attacked me in the catacombs, he is still here. I must do my tasks with diligence.

It takes time to gather my things. I only sleep when the sun is finally risen, and when I awake, I take the knife from my boot, and the one in my other coat. I wear your crest, and I slip on my gloves. I grimace at the rust that shades my hand. I go down into the catacombs. The gate is open, the candles are lit, as if he knows I am coming. Sunlight does not make it down here. I walk past the lords and ladies until I find the chamber I am hoping for. The lid is pulled over the coffin, and it takes all my strength to remove it.

Inside is the count.

His face is serene in slumber. He is colorless and pale as the rest of the dead. He wears his uniform, no doubt what he was buried in. The collar is high against his throat. It is torn at the chest, where my dagger hit. He wears no gloves, and I can see his gnarled, bone white fingers, clawed and with hair at the knuckles. His lips are as white as his face, but his hair is vibrant and red and blankets him as he rests there. I feel again like I am looking at a fable of old, as though the sleeping maiden has had her finger pricked, or the snow white girl is waiting for her kiss. But I am no prince, and he is no maiden, and I bring my fingers to this throat to slide the fabric down. I see the marred flesh, still red.

I must have mistimed the sunset, with the winter growing colder and darker, and the count’s eyes open. At once his maw opens wide, filled with rows of sharpened, angled teeth, and his ember eyes burn into mine. He lunges and his full weight is atop me again. He hisses like the rats and I can barely grab my dagger before he has me on the ground.

“Leave,” he growls at me, voice rasping and made ugly by the sharp teeth. He tells me again, “Leave and you shall live.”

I do not answer him, except to roll my weight so he is the one being tossed to the ground, and I lift my dagger up. And then he is a shadow. I hear the sound of wind and feel wings against my face. I give chase as he runs from me. I glimpse him in the darkness ahead, I see his shadow, and he rises up into the cathedral where he does not know I’ve laid a trap. You’ll have to forgive me, my lady, but the Goddess had Her purpose here. It is Saint Cethleann, who has her arms outstretched to him. He screams as he sees her, barrelling into the pews and tossing them like he is throwing a tantrum. Red bleeds from the shattered windows, and if he goes for the door it is lined with silver. He staggers around, shrieking and howling, and he collapses before the altar of the old church. I stand in the gate, and I don’t know what stills my hand. The sounds he makes are like the sobs of a child. I am reminded, now, as I write this, that the world makes monsters of us all.

His hands clutch his face as he tries to rise. His red hair moves in tendrils like snakes. When he looks at me, with the pointed gallows of his maw, with his hellfire eyes, but with a face so bereft and mournful that it betrays his intent. I cannot move. I am entranced.

“Tell me,” I demand. “What has happened here, tell me everything.”

He cannot become a man again. I see him struggle with it. His hands cover his own face like a child hiding from his reflection. I move closer, he flinches away.

“It started with my father,” he tells me. “I don’t know how or why, but he returned to us changed. His old passions had been money and power.” The count gives a dry laugh that sounds like a creaking tomb. “Now he just wanted blood.”

The chambermaids. His wife. The other nobles as well, I’m sure. Sucking his people dry until there was nothing left.

“He always demanded a legacy,” von Aegir says and tears at the fabric at his throat. “He ensured a successor. And when he was done, when I knew what a monster he was, I--I killed him.”

Pierced him with a lance. Like a storybook knight. I move closer to the count as he tells me. My hands both hold knives, but I let him see them. He is done fighting me.

“It did nothing to stop this,” von Aegir says. “I am so hungry all the time. I try to eat the rats, but it’s not enough. There’s no cure. Daylight, which I am too coward to face, and death. You have, at least, supplied me with options.”

I don’t know what you would tell me to do with him, my lady. I think only of you in these moments, but I don’t know. Would you tell me to behead him, to do away with the danger to your land and your people? Or would you understand him, as I have? Would you offer sympathy and grace in this moment? I am your hand, and yet I act alone.

I did not kill him. Edelgard, I could not.

My full report in time.

H.

⁜⁜⁜

The thing he needs is blood. Edelgard, we have more than enough to spare.

I am bringing him from the castle. I have a crate for him. It is not a silk lined coffin, and he frowns as he lowers himself into it.

“Not the accommodations I am accustomed to,” he says and gets angry when I laugh.

The carriage will travel back through the ravine. I am hopeful we make quick time. He cannot come out during the day. I send the retinue ahead, with my report and my letters, so you will understand why. I travel by the day, and in the evening I allow him to emerge. He drinks tea, Edelgard. Tea and blood. He says it tastes like nothing to him now, but he still desires it. There is a ritual to the practice, I think. I procure a tea set, and on an evening where we are miles from civilization, a table and chair so we may talk. He sees me drink coffee and he wrinkles his nose. He drinks _blood_.

I think he is an asset to us. A man that moves like a shadow, a monster with a pretty face. Familiar bedfellows. But he is both the sun and the moon, and we can use him all the same. And it’s better, I think, than leaving him alone in his tomb. He craves, more than their blood, the company of people. He talks to everyone, Edelgard. We stopped for one evening and he traded stories with each and every person in the tavern, and then I find him later eating rats. At least the mouse problem in the castle will be solved. You should be pleased of that.

You’ll chide me when I return, I know. No, worse. You’ll shake your head, and you will smile, and I’ll know that I’ve done something to please you in the absolute worst way. You’ll sigh at the paperwork, and hum and haw at the stories we’ll have to weave, but you’ll be happy anyway. It infuriates me to have him think I’m doing some kindness. I think practically, we both know this. A monster in our command is better than one running loose in the countryside. And if he does step out of line, he will offer himself to me, I’m sure. A noble beast. It’d be annoying if he weren’t so useful.

He’s asking me for tea again, my lady. I will entertain our new charge. I tell him if he needs blood so badly, he need not take it from the rodents, but he thinks a poisoner’s blood is not to be trusted, which I am proud to agree with. Still, I worry he’ll fell a horse next. I’ll work on him, to make him decent for your presence. I send this ahead, so you know to expect us. I am eager to be in your company again.

Your humble servant,

H.


End file.
